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You Ain’t Kin, Bro (Part 1)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Smith!Reader

Genre: Domestic fluff / Protective Daryl / Angst with comfort / Banter / Emotional intimacy / Pregnancy fic

Warnings: Complicated sibling dynamic (Negan is the reader’s older brother), suggestive but no smut, emotional tension, pregnancy stuff, language. That's it, pretty much.

Summary: You’ve built a quiet, peaceful-ish life with Daryl Dixon — with a baby on the way, this is probably the happiest either of you has ever been. But when Negan starts demanding attention from behind his cell door, you realise ghosts don’t need keys to rattle your peace. And Daryl? He’s not letting your brother take a damn thing more from you.

Era: Alexandria (six-year time skip)

Author’s Note: Okay, so. Confession time: I usually detest pregnancy tropes. Honestly, I roll my eyes straight outta my head. But when it comes to Daryl Dixon? Suddenly, I’m just a girl with zero self-control and a very specific set of needs. This is pure comfort-fluff-meets-chaotic-hormonal-energy, and I’m not sorry. This is Part 1 — a slow burn of soft domestic moments, dog jealousy, and emotional spirals. If you like this, you are gonna love Part 2. We’re talking full-throttle family tension, capital-D Drama, and a lot more of a certain someone in a cell (👀 yeah… him). This part is mostly groundwork, setup, and me living out my fluffy, pregnant reader x Daryl fantasies. Anyway, hope you enjoy the cosy mess. Let me know if it wrecks you (in a good way). 💕

You stirred beneath the covers, blinking against the pale dawn. Your hips ached, the same deep throb that had started a few weeks ago — an annoying reminder that your equilibrium had shifted entirely. Your hand slid down to rest over the swell of your belly, tracing the curve like you still couldn’t quite believe it was real.

Eventually, the pull of movement of something warm and familiar in the air lured you out of bed. You shuffled to your feet, one hand bracing your back, the other tugging down the hem of the shirt that barely passed for a nightgown anymore. Daryl’s shirt. Too big in the shoulders, stretched thin from too many washes, and somehow still the most comfortable thing in the world. Downstairs, you found him already up. The kitchen light was on, dim and golden, casting long shadows over the countertops. Daryl stood at the stove, shirtless, sleep-mussed, and muttering to himself as he poured steaming liquid into your favourite chipped mug, the kettle still hissed softly behind him.

You leaned against the doorway, arms folded over your chest. “Tell me that’s real coffee.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn. “Siddiq says no.”

“Siddiq can fuck off. He’s like a… haemorrhoid. Yeah. He’s a pain in the ass when he’s here and it’s a relief when he’s gone.”

Daryl turned, his expression unreadable, and held the mug out to you. “Yeah, well, he’s keeping you and our baby healthy. He’s good in my books.”

God damnit, you sighed.

“No, babe, you’re supposed to agree with oh no, come on-” The smell of the fake coffee hit you, and it was definitely not something you would have revelled in smelling. In fact, for a while, it was a prominent trigger for your morning sickness.

“Fine, it’s fake. But I made it really good. Just pretend it’s the real stuff”

You sighed and pushed off the doorframe, crossing the room like a prisoner heading for cafeteria slop—with low expectations and a grudge. The smell hit you first — rich, warm, deeply disappointing. You took the cup anyway, wrapping your hands around it as you stared him down.

“You hate this stuff as much as I do, why’re you drinking it?” you asked. He smirked a little. “Yeah, well… figured if you were gonna suffer through it, might as well suffer with company.”

You took a sip and immediately grimaced, tongue curling against the dull bitterness. “Still tastes like regret,” you muttered, resting the mug on your knee.

Daryl chuckled, low and hoarse, leaning back against the counter with that quiet, unreadable way he had about him — like he could stand in a room without saying a word and still feel like gravity. His gaze lingered on you, steady and knowing, the kind that never demanded answers because it already understood the shape of them.

“You sleep okay?”

You exhaled through your nose, still eyeing the decaf with suspicion. “If you count waking up every hour to pee and flipping sides like a rotisserie chicken… then yeah. Sure.”

That earned a snort, and you caught the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth — the not-smile he always tried to suppress, as if letting it fully bloom might betray how soft he’d become around you.

The slow rubbing of your back gave away your discomfort. Daryl pushed off the counter and nodded toward the couch. “You wanna sit?”

You didn’t answer, just let him guide you gently into the living room, his hand low on your back, grounding and careful without making a show of it. He helped you lower onto the couch, and you sank into the cushions with a sigh that felt like it came from your spine. As you stretched your legs out, Daryl dropped beside you and — without so much as a word — lifted them into his lap with practised ease.

His hand found rubbed up and down your shin, warm and rough from years of work, his other came to rest across the swell of your stomach, thumb tracing lazy, absent-minded circles through the fabric of your shirt like it was a ritual. You watched him feel for movement, and when the faintest flutter stirred beneath his hand, he smiled.

“Lil Dixon awake yet?”

You huffed a breath, not quite a laugh. “Probably practising tae kwon do in there. I swear, this kid’s trying to fight their way out.”

He didn’t say anything for a beat, just kept up those soft circles, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. When he spoke, it was quiet, almost reverent. “Still can’t believe it. That it’s real, ya know. That we’re here.”

You turned your head, resting it against the arm of the couch, studying the curve of Daryl’s face as the early light pooled across the room. The faint scar at his temple caught a silver glint; his hair was tousled in that familiar, careless way, and his worn but warm profile carried a kind of quiet peace that hadn’t existed before you. Beneath all the rough edges was something that had always unsettled you in the best way: a gentleness he never named, never spoke aloud, but one that lived in the tilt of his gaze, in the steady weight of his hand where it curled instinctively over your belly. There was something fierce in that quiet — a man who had lost so much and yet still chose to love as though he hadn’t.

“I know,” you whispered, voice soft as breath. “Me neither.”

And maybe it was the light, or the stillness, or the way your child shifted faintly beneath his palm just then — like they knew it was their father’s touch — but your throat tightened without warning. A warm pressure welled behind your eyes, betraying you with a sudden swell of emotion that had no sharp edges, only heat and weight and inevitability.

Daryl’s brows pinched in concern as he caught the hitch in your breath. He turned his head toward you, reaching up to brush his thumb under your eye. “Hey,” he murmured, voice low and unhurried, “what’s that all about?”

You stiffened and turned your face slightly away, blinking hard. “Nothing. Shut up.”

His thumb continued to sweep your tears, giving you a look. Cmon, cut the bullshit, it’s me.

You groaned through your nose, wiping at your eyes with the sleeve of his shirt you were wearing. “I’m not crying, I just—ugh, you started it.”

He blinked, face scrunching. “Started what?”

You gestured vaguely at the air between you with a dramatic little huff. “All this. Your stupid, sweet, caring ways. And looking at me like that! Like I hung the goddamn moon. It’s… It’s emotionally manipulative, and I don’t appreciate it.”

A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest, but he didn’t let go. “Right. My mistake.”

“And then I remembered the movie we watched last night,” you blurted, throwing your hands up like it explained everything. “And the feather.”

“The feather?” His head tilted slightly, still trying to follow your spiral.

“Forrest Gump,” you said, exasperated. “The feather that floats at the beginning and the end, like this whole fragile, beautiful metaphor for life or destiny or whatever—” Your voice cracked, betraying you again. “It’s just a goddamn feather, but it messed me up! And I’m pregnant!”

A beat passed before he answered, his gaze never leaving your face. “Uh huh-.”

“And then I started thinking about how one day our kid’s gonna grow up and then i thought, holy shit. I used to be so hot. I mean… painfully hot, Daryl. Like ruin-lives hot. And now I can’t even put on socks without getting winded, and I look like a hippo, and—”

“Baby, you’re beautiful.” His voice was a tether, grounding and warm.

“Pottery is beautiful, Daryl. Wallpaper, tablecloths, and furniture are beautiful. I’m talking hot. Playboy, homewrecker level hot.” You hiccupped halfway through and stilled when his hand moved to cradle the back of your head. He shuffled along the couch, leaning over and pressing a kiss to your temple, the brush of his lips steadying you more than any words could have managed.

“You’re still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. “Ain’t no maybe about it. Those playboy models ain’t got nothing on ya.” He took your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckle.

“You’re still hot,” he reiterated. “Just… hot in a rounder way."

You sniffled, giving him a weak glare; “don’t make me laugh when I’m cryin’, you jackass."

"Just statin’ facts,” he said, giving you his signature smirk. “Besides… I like ya round.”

That pulled a laugh from your chest, reluctant yet genuine. You shifted in your spot to rest your head on Daryl’s chest. His arm reached around your body to hold you to him, his other hand now stroking your thigh. It felt like this was where you were meant to be.

Dog, curled by the front door like a loyal sentry, perked up at the moment. His ears twitched, head lifting as if alerted to some unspoken shift in the atmosphere. You watched with a mix of exasperation and amusement as he rose, deliberate and slow, and began his patrol across the room with the kind of solemnity usually reserved for presidential guards.

Daryl didn’t even flinch when Dog jumped up on the couch and wedged himself squarely between the two of you, planting his feet and puffing out his chest like he was ready to body-check the man who you lived with. You raised an eyebrow, laughing.

“You seein’ this?” you breathed, gesturing lazily toward the furry interloper. “He’s been like this all damn week.”

Daryl sighed, giving the dog a level look. “What is your problem, huh?”

Dog responded with a grumble that sounded suspiciously judgmental. The K-9 shifted so that he was blocking Daryl from you completely, and Daryl swore he saw a satisfied look in Dog's eyes when you hugged him.

You smirked, scratching your fur. “He knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That I’m carrying precious cargo. And that you’re the one who did this to me.”

Daryl lifted both hands like a man wrongly accused. “I don’t remember doin’ that all by myself.”

You narrowed your eyes, pressing a hand to your belly. “You got me pregnant, not the other way around. Don’t go tryin’ to science your way outta this one.”

His mouth twitched. “Ain’t no science about it. Just good ol’ fashioned teamwork.”

You gave him a look. “This baby is gonna be just as dumb as you, isn’t it?”

He motioned for the dog to get off of you, which he reluctantly complied with, before leaning in to cup your bump with both hands and muttering low against the curve of your belly, “Don’t listen to her, kid. Being mean’s just how she says ‘I love ya.’”

A laugh slipped out, unbidden. Your hand joined his, warm over the fabric of your shirt. Five months in, and you were showing more and more every day—round, heavier, unmistakable-but Daryl never looked at your body like it had changed. He looked at it like it had become something sacred.

His palm lingered there like it belonged, fingers spreading as though trying to cover every inch of what you were carrying. His touch was gentle, familiar but never careless. And when he felt the faint movement beneath your shirt, his smile bloomed without fanfare, quiet and full of something deep-rooted.

“Mornin’, Lil Dixon,” he murmured almost too quietly to hear. “You givin’ your mama hell already?”

You let out a long-suffering exhale. “You think it’s sweet now, but it gets old real fast.”

Daryl chuckled under his breath, eyes still on your belly. “Stubborn lil’ thing.”

You snorted. “Wonder where they get that from.”

His hand stilled for a moment, then resumed its rhythm—more teasing now, more playful. “Probably got your temper. And my stubbornness. We’re doomed.”

“Speak for yourself.” You tilted your head against the back of the couch, watching him through lashes still damp from earlier. “They’re gonna be the smartest, sassiest kid in Alexandria. You’ll be outnumbered.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your belly—light and sure, his lips brushing the thin stretch of cotton with the kind of reverence that didn’t need words.

From the rug, Dog let out a disapproving huff. Apparently, the public display of affection had gone too far.

“Don’t start,” Daryl warned.

“Aww.” You motioned for the dog to come over, his tail wagging now, and started petting him. him from where you were sprawled on the couch. “He’s probably just worried you’re gonna steal me away from him.”

Daryl scoffed. “Steal you? Hell, I’m the one who—” He cut himself off, shooting a glance at your belly. “Never mind.”

You smirked. “Uh huh. That’s what I thought.”

Daryl leaned back with a huff. His hand returned to your bump, staring off into the distance, mind miles away. You, on the other hand, were perfectly content, finally comfy lying down, Daryl’s touch lulled you to sleep.

“You scared?” he asked, voice quiet, like he wasn’t sure he should say it out loud.

You’re eyes fluttered open, and you smiled at him. “Terrified.”

He nodded, beaming over to you, “Me too… Can’t wait.”

He didn’t move right away, just stayed there with the two of you smiling like idiots in love, his hand still splayed over your bump, thumb idly stroking soft arcs like muscle memory. He moved in, leaning down towards you and kissed your lips gently. He was now parallel with you, his hands finding their purchase on your waist. The kiss started gently—just the press of mouths, warm and familiar. A shared breath. A giggle caught in your throat when he muttered something low against your lips that you couldn’t quite hear, and maybe you didn’t need to. You could feel him smiling against your lips, your hands wandering over his bare back as he deepened the kiss, slow and lingering, like he had all the time in the world. His tongue lazily crept past his lips to meet yours, which you gladly accepted; his calloused fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt you’d stolen, tugging you impossibly closer in that quiet, greedy way he always did when he forgot to be careful. Your breath caught when his palm slid under the hem to touch your hot skin, just above your hip, warm and rough and reverent in that way he never said out loud. His hands naturally scaled up your abdomen, glazing over your bump to gently palm your swollen breast, a small smile forming on your mouth from his tenderness. You hadn’t even noticed that he had started subtly grinding on you, wth your focus tied to his hot mouth now tracing your jaw. As if by magic, the buttons on your shirt became undone one by one, Daryl’s mouth trailing down your neck, your chest. He drank in the sight of you under him, hair a mess, skin glowing, porcelain and hot with desire. He pressed slow kisses to your breasts, hands travelling down to grasp your hips, teasing the waistband of your underwear-

BARK.

You both froze.

Then came another bark—louder this time, sharp and insistent, echoing off the walls like a siren.

Daryl let out a strangled groan and dropped his forehead to your chest. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

The dog was already at the door, posture stiff with alertness, ears pinned forward, tail raised like a little soldier on patrol. He barked again, growing restless.

You sat up, breathless, tugging your shirt to cover your exposed self with a rueful shake of your head. “I swear he has a sixth sense for ruining moments.”

The knock on the door had barely echoed before Dog was barking frantically. Daryl groaned quietly, “Stay put,” he said, as he peeled himself away, dragging an old shirt from the arm of the couch and tugging it on over bare skin while moving towards the door.

You stayed where you were, still curled on the couch, fingers smoothing your shirt back into place as you tried to calm the flutter in your chest. Dog remained on high alert, stationed near the front door with his ears pinned forward and tail stiff, vibrating with anticipation.

Daryl opened the door to reveal Gabriel, who lingered on the porch with the look of a man wishing he were anywhere else. He didn’t step inside—just hovered, as if proximity alone might be enough to deliver the message without facing the fallout.

“Hey, Daryl…” Gabriel’s voice held a cautious lilt, too gentle for the morning and the weight he was clearly about to drop. “Sorry. I wouldn’t impose if it weren’t important.”

Daryl leaned in the doorway, one arm braced high against the frame, the other resting low, like he was trying to look relaxed while subtly blocking the view inside. His weight settled into one hip, casual on the surface—but there was a tightness in his jaw, a stillness in his stance that betrayed the tension humming beneath. “What’s up?” he asked, voice low, unreadable.

Gabriel shifted uneasily, probably because he was a little surprised at seeing Daryl in his ‘casual’ attire. The flicker of guilt on his face told you everything you needed to know from where you were sitting before the words even landed. “It’s Negan. He’s refusing to work, refusing food. Says he’s not speaking to anyone until he sees her.”

For a moment, the house itself seemed to go still. You sat up, spine stiffening like it had been pulled taut by a wire. “What?”

Gabriel blinked, startled. “I didn’t realise you were—sorry. I thought Daryl had told you.”

Daryl didn’t turn to you. He didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed on Gabriel, steady as stone. “She’s fine. She’s safe n’ she’s happy. That’s enough.”

He stepped back, grumbling a quick ‘thanks for stopping by,’ before slamming the door in Gabriel’s face.

You stared at him, waiting. Daryl lingered in the entryway, jaw clenched tight, one hand rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to think his way out of the whole mess he had dug himself.

“You knew,” you stated, voice even, but your hands were already curling around the pillow in your lap.

He exhaled, slow and steady, and didn’t look at you as he answered. “Yeah.”

“How long?”

He paused. The silence dragged. Then he lifted his gaze to meet yours, weary but without evasion. “Couple weeks. Maybe more. I don’t-”

A bitter laugh clawed its way up your throat, half-surprise and half-exhaustion. “Jesus, Daryl.”

“I didn’t want ya worryin’.”

“That’s not your call to make!” You shot back, immediately regretting your outbursts.

He approached you slowly, slightly hesitant, careful like he thought you might snap, and crouched in front of you. “I just wanted to make things easy. For you. For the baby. I thought maybe if I kept it quiet, we could just… forget about him.”

All your anger oozed out of you in an instant. With a sigh, you took his hand. There was something so soothing about figdeting with his fingers and tracing the creases in his palm. It simply anchored you.

“I’m tired,” you whispered. “Tired of letting him take up space. I don’t want him haunting everything. He doesn’t get to own any part of this.”

Daryl’s eyes searched your face, his jaw still tense, but his voice low and sure. “You don’t gotta see him. I’ll talk to Gabe. Or I’ll go down there and make things real clear myself. He don’t get to ask anything of you.”

You reached up and brushed your knuckles over his stubble, a weak smile plastered on your face. “I need to face him. On my terms.”

He didn’t argue, though you could see it in the flicker of his gaze—that need to shield you from everything ugly. But he nodded.

“And next time?” you added. “Don’t keep shit from me.”

His mouth quirked into a half-smile, small but genuine, fiddling with your smaller hand now and looking up at you again. “Even if I think it’s protectin’ you?”

You raised your eyebrows at him; “especially then.”

He watched you for a long beat, something shifting behind his eyes—less regret than reverence, like he couldn’t believe he’d ended up here, in this moment, with you. Then he leaned in, slow and sure, and kissed you. It wasn’t hurried or demanding. It didn’t need to be. His lips found yours with a kind of quiet certainty, and you met him there, your hands now resting on his firm chest. There was no pretence in the way he kissed you—just something raw and steady, like he was afraid you might disappear.

When you finally pulled back, your nose brushed his. You lingered there, still close enough to feel the brush of his breath against your skin.

“When you said you’d ‘make things real clear’ with him…” your voice came out low, a little dazed around the edges, “you weren’t talking about a heart-to-heart, were you?”

Daryl’s thumb paused mid-circle on your thigh. For a second, he didn’t look at you—just kept his eyes fixed on the spot where your shirt stretched faintly over your belly. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Measured.

“I just meant I’d… remind him of his place.”

That was it. No growl, no flash of temper—just a statement of fact. Low and steady, like a river cutting through stone. You didn’t miss the slight smugness in his voice either.

You breathed out through your nose, the corner of your mouth tugging despite yourself. “And if he doesn’t get the memo?”

“He will.”

There was no threat in it, not really. Just certainty. The kind that came from a man who’d lost too much to let anyone touch what he had left.

You arched a brow, trying not to smile.“I don’t need a bodyguard,” you said, your tone softening as your gaze met his. “I just need you.”

His smile faltered into something quieter, deeper. “You got me,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Always.”

He looked down, eyes shadowed with something fierce and unspoken, and when he spoke again, it was with the kind of promise that didn’t need swearing.

“He ain’t takin’ one more thing from us. Not now. Not ever again.”

____________________________________________________________

The day had barely warmed, sunlight still soft when you and Daryl stepped out into the buzzing Alexandria. It was almost noon — late enough for the world to be fully awake but early enough that everything still carried the golden hum of morning.

The path to the house where Negan’s cell was kept wasn’t long, a few minutes, really. It was just familiar enough to feel like routine and heavy enough to remind you it wasn’t. The community around you was alive and humming: Aaron was knee-deep in one of the flower beds near the gates, sleeves rolled and dirt under his nails, humming something low while Jerry walked past carrying lumber like it weighed nothing. Siddiq spotted the two of you from the porch of the make-shift doctor’s office and waved. Rosita was shouting instructions at Gabriel from across the garden plots. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and sawdust.

Your eyes drifted toward the half-rebuilt church just off the main path. The bones of the structure were there now, charred in some places, freshly laid timber in others. Its front doors were propped open even though the inside was still nothing but scaffolding and stacked pews waiting to be sanded down. The stained-glass panels had yet to be replaced, so shafts of sunlight poured in unfiltered, catching dust motes midair and turning them gold.

A breeze caught the edge of your shirt—one of Daryl’s old flannels—and pressed it to the curve of your stomach. His hand darted out to smooth it gently back down, fingers brushing over the swell like it was instinct now.

He gave you a sideways glance, voice low. “You hidin’ it on purpose?”

You arched a brow. “What?”

“That shirt’s two sizes too big, even on me. You never used to care who saw what.”

You let out a breath through your nose. “I just don’t want it to be a thing.”

Daryl frowned slightly, like the answer didn’t sit right with him. “The hell does that mean?”

“It means I don’t want people touching my belly like I’m a carnival attraction,” you muttered, pulling the flannel tighter around you. “Or asking me if I’ve felt the baby kick. Or worse—asking how my boobs feel. Like this is a public pregnancy or some shit.”

“Wait, hold up. People are askin’ you about your tits?” His brows drew together, eyes narrowing with something sharp and reflexive. “Who the hell’s been talkin’ to you like that?”

You bit back a grin, entirely unbothered. “Relax, Dixon. Nobody’s gettin’ handsy. Just curious.”

“Curious?” he echoed, tone flat.

“Oh yeah. Apparently my boobs are a community event now.” You waved a hand airily. “Carol brought it up when she saw me spill water on my shirt yesterday. Then Rosita joined in and started talking about how she was kinda jealous of my rack now.”

Daryl blinked like he’d just been hit with a frying pan. “What the hell kind of conversations are y’all havin’ around here?”

You smirked, patting his chest. “Relax, babe. I’m very popular lately. Everyone wants to know how the baby’s doing—and apparently, that includes ma boobs.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘fuckin’ ridiculous’ and shook his head, still looking vaguely horrified.

You leaned in with a wicked little smile. “Don’t worry. You’re the only one who gets the full show.”

He groaned. “Jesus Christ.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as you walked. But he was quiet for a moment, thoughtful.

“So that’s all it is?” he asked finally, tone softer now. “Just folks being nosy?”

You hesitated. Just long enough for him to notice.

Then: “Yeah,” you said with a quick nod. “That’s all.”

But you knew he didn’t believe you. Not entirely. You weren’t even sure you believed yourself. Because while it was true—Alexandrians and their good-natured fussing were enough to drive anyone to madness—it wasn’t the whole truth.

It wasn’t the coffee bans or the boob questions or the unsolicited advice that kept you wrapped up in oversized shirts. It was what waited behind those barred doors.

Negan. The man who practically raised you. The man who became something else entirely.

Daryl didn’t press the silence. He just walked with you, his grip firm but reassuring. As you neared the block where the house was, he glanced sideways again, his jaw tight, unreadable.

“Just don’t want you shrinkin’ yourself,” he murmured. “Ain’t nothin’ about this you gotta hide.”

You gave him a small smile, even as your chest twisted. “I’m not hiding. I’m just… managing expectations. And boundaries. And personal space.”

“Uh huh.”

He didn’t believe you. Not really. But he didn’t call you out either. That was the thing about Daryl—he didn’t need to drag the truth out of you. He just stayed close, offered his quiet kind of safety, and let you come around when you were ready. You both knew the real reason. But for now, it was enough. Still holding your hand, he gave it one more squeeze and led you the rest of the way.

You heard her before you saw her — the quick patter of feet on packed dirt, the familiar squeak of worn-out sneakers hitting the path. Then came the blur of curls and denim flying toward you with the unstoppable force of a missile powered entirely by affection.

“Auntie!”

Judith barreled into you at full tilt, all limbs and laughter and pure, unfiltered joy. You let out a breathless laugh, arms curling instinctively around her small frame as she hugged you tight, face pressed against your bump like she could hear a secret.

“Woah there, little ass-kicker,” Daryl said, stepping in with a hand lightly braced on her back. His voice was rough but fond, laced with just the right amount of mock-seriousness. “Be careful, yeah? Yer auntie’s growin’ yer cousin in there.”

“I know,” Judith giggled without letting go. “I just missed her!”

You ruffled her curls. “Honey, didn’t I see you yesterday?”

“That was forever ago.”

A familiar voice floated in behind her. “Tried to make her walk,” Michonne called, striding up with that cool, measured grace she always carried. “But she had tunnel vision.”

You linked your arm through hers without a word, and she fell into step beside you like always. Her gaze drifted over your bump, eyes narrowing with exaggerated scrutiny.

“You’re rounding out,” Michonne observed, eyeing your bump with a grin that said she’d earned the right to comment.

“I’m ballooning,” you replied flatly, brushing a hand across your belly. “At this point, I’m basically a parade float.”

“Oh please,” she scoffed. “You look good! Like a… radiant fertility goddess.”

You scoffed at that. “Yeah? Tell that to my thighs,” you muttered. “They’ve unionised.”

Michonne barked a laugh. “You sound like me when I was pregnant. I felt like a fridge. Are you craving any weird stuff yet? Pickles were my best friend.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but Daryl cut in from behind with a tired sigh, clearly waiting for this opening. “At least that’s normal,” he said. “You know what she’s been makin’ me hunt down like it’s damn liquid gold?”

Michonne raised a brow. “Hit me.”

“Hot sauce,” he deadpanned. “Tabasco, specifically. She’s been pourin’ it over ice cubes and callin’ it a snack.”

You shrugged, wholly unapologetic. “It helps with iron. I’m a hormonal mess held together by sarcasm and spicy condiments,” you replied cheerfully.

Michonne barked a laugh and threw an arm around your shoulders. “Oh, honey.”

Judith, meanwhile, had her face pressed so close to your belly it was like she was trying to listen in. “Is the baby kicking?”

“Probably napping,” you said, smoothing down her curls. “But they always wake up when I try to sleep, so give it a few hours.”

Judith grinned, then turned to Daryl. “You gonna teach them to shoot?”

“Soon as they can stand,” he said without missing a beat.

Michonne groaned. “You two are gonna raise a feral little assassin.”

You and Daryl shared a smirk. Neither of you denied it.

Then the mood shifted, just slightly. Michonne’s easy smile softened as she glanced towards the house where Negan was being kept. “You ready?” she asked.

You nodded, pressing a palm to your bump like it might anchor you. “As I’ll ever be.”

Daryl reached for your hand. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. His fingers laced through yours, thumb brushing slowly across your knuckles, grounding you both. When you reached the house and descended down the steps, you tugged Daryl’s arm. “It’s probably best if I do this alone. “

In other words, if you go in there, someone is gonna end up bleeding.

“Ya sure?” he asked, kinda hoping you would change your mind, but he knew you wouldn’t; “Yeah, go take Dog for a walk, or I don’t know, do whatever you do when you aren’t fussing over me.”

After a beat, he looked down at your lips and leaned in. Sure, he would never grow tired of kissing you, but it wasn't a coincidence that he kissed you right where Negan had a front row seat. His singular window had a birds eye view of Daryl lipsing his sister. Daryl cupped your face, the kiss spanning over several seconds, tongue slipping past his lips and meeting yours. Maybe we could postpone this whole family reunion? The feeling of eyes broke the two of you apart. You looked to the cell window and met your brother’s eyes, staring back at you.

“I’ll be right outside,” Daryl said, squeezing your hand, eyes glued to Negan’s face. And with that, you let go of his hand, opening the door and entering the threshold. God this was going to suck dick, you thought. And not in the good way.

Part 2

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